


Returned

by jelenamichel



Category: NCIS
Genre: Angst, Apart too long, F/M, Romance, So done with this separation, Sort it out dummies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 16:52:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6203269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jelenamichel/pseuds/jelenamichel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ziva returns home, they meet in silence and stares. It’s where they’ve always been most comfortable. Their private place, even in a room full of people and activity. They’ve always had so much to say. Silently. T/Z, obviously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Returned

**Author's Note:**

> So. I really miss Ziva. I miss Tony. I miss our dynamic duo. Hopefully they’ll be reunited in a few months’ time. I have literally a dozen story ideas about that reunion, and my personal preference would be for Ziva to return to save his butt from something. But when I sat down to write the story, this is what came out instead.

She has been meaning to contact him all week, but so far the best of intentions have been no match for her gut-churning apprehension. It has been months since they last checked in—a panicked text from him after news reports of widespread bombings in her area, a reassuring one back from her that she was safe—and now she is not sure how to approach him. The feeling sits awkwardly in her chest; she is not used to feeling so…removed from him. Examining the reasons for their emotional separation usually brings a suffocating lump of guilt to her throat, and so she does what she can to block the whole affair out of her mind.

It doesn’t stop her missing him. It doesn’t fill the void in her chest. This coping mechanism has only succeeded in making her feel even more removed from him. In her darker moments she worries that he will have written her off as someone he used to know. In her weaker moments she worries that she deserves the demotion.

It is this uncertainty and a natural inclination to see the glass half empty that feeds her apprehension, and now she finds herself up against a deadline. But, without knowing it, he has thrown her a lifeline. She wonders how it is that he always knows to save her. The icon next to his name on her laptop has suddenly flipped to green, as if screaming at her to _go, go, go_. She pulls up a chair at her desk, smoothes her hair and swallows the lump of fear creeping up from her chest.

She calls him.

…

He should have gone to bed long ago. In fact, he did. But when ticking minutes flipped over to an hour he accepted the futility of rest when weighed down by a fully laden mind, and turned on the laptop in search of something to distract him.

And if there were ever a distraction…

The sight of her name popping up affects him thusly: First, he feels his heart stop. Then, he feels sensation drain from his body. A flight response fills the new emptiness for just a moment until his heart starts beating again and he accepts the call without further thought.

God, she’s beautiful.

…

She’s struck by how tired he looks. But his smile is the same. Not his big, fake, _all is well_ smile. It’s his small, honest _Tony_ smile. And she’s missed it so much that she feels tears prick the back of her eyes.

…

For a few moments they just stare at each other. Just like old times. He could stare at her all day. Long ago, there were days when he tried.

“Tony.” His name is like honey on her lips. Thick and warm. He wishes it would stick to her mouth forever.

“Sweetcheeks,” he greets, and enjoys the roll of her eyes over a small Ziva smirk.

“It is late, Tony,” she says, her voice soft as if trying to soothe him to sleep. “Why are you still awake? Are you working on a case?”

He shakes his head and scrambles for an explanation to such an innocuous question. “No, just can’t sleep.”

He notes the slight tilt to her head and barest narrowing of her eyes. It’s so classically her that he can’t help smiling through the pain in his chest.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

The continued intimacy in her voice makes him ache for days past, as if he doesn’t already ache every day. He wants to close his eyes and fall into his memories, but he shakes his head and offers an easy half-smile. “Some other time,” he says. He doubts it will ever come.

Ziva’s eyes fall to her desk and she nods, accepting the rejection. “Of course,” she says thickly, and then looks up again. He expects to see her eyes wiped clean of emotion as she shifts focus to the reason for her call, but he’s wrong. Her hurt and longing and guilt shines plainly in her eyes, and he can’t believe this is the same woman who used to invest so much energy in hiding her feelings from even those closest to her. Her words do not dwell, though. She moves the conversation along without pulling down the shutters on her emotion.

“I will not keep you up,” she says. “But I saw you were online and I have been meaning to get in touch this week.”

He cocks his head to the side. It’s not his birthday. It’s not Christmas or New Year or any other occasion that prompts the near and dear to get in touch from far away. “Oh?”

She pushes hair behind her shoulder—he thinks it’s gotten darker again, though not as dark as when they met—and leans forward on her elbows. “The JAG prosecuting the Heffernan case has been in touch,” she says, and Tony’s heart falls when he realizes she wants to talk business. He takes a steady breath and hides his disappointment behind professionalism.

When did they switch roles?

“Yeah,” he says, and clears his throat. “We’re going to trial next week. Finally.” Surely she knows this, and she nods.

“As one of his arresting officers, I am required to give evidence.”

“And you want to talk to the other arresting officer to make sure we’ve got our stories straight?” he asks, then _tsks_ her. “I don’t think we’re supposed to do that.”

She smirks again. “No, but just so you know, I intend to leave out the part where you called him gutter scum.”

“Gutter _trash_ ,” he corrects. His grin is genuine.

Ziva turns an innocent expression on him. “Well, I did not hear that, so I cannot say.”

His entire being aches with how much he misses her.

“So, what time are they making you get up to give video evidence?” he asks.

Her easy smile turns tense. “Well…that is why I have been meaning to get in touch with you. I will not be giving evidence from here. I am flying over.”

The information sets off another chain reaction in him: his heart stops, sensation drains out of him and then returns a second later to slam into him like a hurricane. “You’re coming home?”

…

His voice sounds thin to her ears, and she is not sure what that means. Either news of her impending arrival fills him with dread, or hope. Both options make her eyes water, but she offers him a small smile and hopes for the best.

“Yes,” she answers. “And I wanted to ask if you would perhaps like to…catch up?” The slang feels strange on her lips, and she wonders if she got it right. She is sure he will correct her if she didn’t, and when he doesn’t jump in she rushes on. “I know the hours you keep—all too well—so if you are too busy, I understand. Or if you do not want to.”

He leans forward, eyebrow popped. “Why would I ever say no to that, Ziva?” 

She can think of several reasons. For one, she is almost certain she broke his heart (along with hers). And she made him leave when he was clear that he did not want to. But his response is so confident, so sure. So much more open than it would have ever been before now, that she wonders—hopes—that time has helped him understand and forgive her actions.

She opens her mouth to return the honesty, or perhaps offer a self-deprecating or at least self-aware joke. But self-preservation (or selfishness?) closes her throat. She snaps her mouth shut and curses the tears that come to her eyes. She is at a loss to explain, and she reminds herself that this is one of the reasons she doesn’t deserve him. Because he deserves an explanation.

…

He watches in fascination as tears and guilt fill her eyes. He likes to think that one day, they’ll find their way back to each other. God, maybe that time is now. But he knows that even if they do, and even if they make it to 100 years old without a single fight, that guilt is always going to be within her. There will always be something she will hang on to and beat herself up over.

It’s something he will have to learn to live with.

He moves things along. “When do you arrive?” _How much longer do I have to wait?_

Her eyes drift around the screen before returning to him. “In about 15 hours.”

He frowns into his shock. “What? Are you about to get on a plane?”

“Yes. I am about to walk out the door to go to the airport.”

His smile is so sudden he thinks he pulls a muscle in his cheek. “Then you better get going,” he tells her. “Call me when you get in.”

She nods. “Yes.” She pauses, speaks haltingly. “I have not told Gibbs or…I will email McGee from the airport.”

He knows what she’s getting at, and unfortunately he can’t tell her that Gibbs will be pleased to see her. “Leave it at that,” he advises.

Sadness tugs at her eyes until she turns them on him again and smiles. “I will talk to you soon.” She lifts a hand to end the call, but he calls out, unable to stop himself.

“Ziva?”

She pauses and lifts her eyebrows, waiting for him to speak.

_Do you miss me as much as I miss you?_

He can’t put voice to it. It’s too complicated. Too intense. He decides to flash her a cheeky smile.

“Nothing. Just wanted to look at you for a bit longer.”

She seems to melt, and he watches her fingers reach out to touch her computer screen. “I will see you soon,” she promises. “Please do not get shot or stabbed or get in another car accident…”

He has to laugh. Such a tragic calamity would be _so_ them. “I’m gonna pick you up covered in bubble wrap, Ziva.”

…

She enjoys a few moments of peace and happiness after the call ends. It warms her soul that he is still the same man. Still kind and sincere and funny. He still looks at her with affection and familiarity, although the addition of sadness and hurt makes her heart pound with pain.

And this is what dulls her happiness. The knowledge that she is responsible for that hurt. He is still the same man, and his assurances that he wants to see her are sincere. But she owes him a conversation. She owes explanations and apologies. More than that, she owes him honesty. Too much time has passed and they have both grown enough, together and apart, that she can no longer hold on to ancient crutches of restraint, denial and lies.

No excuses, now. She must do what she can to make things right.

Assuming, of course, that he wants her to.

…

He sleeps lightly, then spends the whole day reaching for his phone to check that he hasn’t missed her call.

There is confusion in his thoughts. He’s desperate to see her—touch her, smell her, hold her, love her, amuse her, absolve her—but his heart still stings. He knows her choice was not a black and white affair. Black and white does not exist in her world, or his. He knows she loved him, even as she told him to go. He knows she needed the time and space to heal. To remember who she is, or perhaps to reintroduce herself to who she’s always been at the core without other peoples’ wars on her shoulders. He knows her mental and emotional states were deteriorating, and that she did what she needed to in order to have a shot at being healthy again.

But it stings.

Stings that she wanted to do it alone. That she made him go through his own mental health adventure alone. Stings that she showed him that real life isn’t a movie, and love doesn’t always conquer all.

But maybe it will. For them.

He stings. But he’s willing to heal. For her.

… 

She closes her eyes on the plane, but she doesn’t sleep. She spends the hours crossing the Atlantic conjuring memories of the all-too-brief moments when they touched, and all the times she should have said something but let the moment pass. She wonders how he felt when she looked at him, and whether he felt warmed, understood, safe. The way she did when he looked at her.

She should have told him what he meant to her.

She still debates what hanging on to rules was worth in the end. It’s as much her fault as his—and Gibbs’—that they never found out what could have been. She grieves for lost time, but there’s a part of her that can’t help thinking it was for the best. She has never truly been herself. Never felt unburdened by her father’s, her country’s and her own expectations. But things have changed. She has always felt independent, but she feels something healthier now: in control of her own future.

But what is that worth when it comes to them? Maybe something. Maybe nothing.

She does not wish to be presumptuous. She continues to atone for her former life, but can she ever atone for the damage she inflicted on his?

She only has her hopes.

… 

McGee waits until Gibbs and Bishop are out of the bullpen before ambushing him with cautious excitement.

“She’s coming?” he checks, eyes bright and smile thin but close to bursting wide as he leans almost out of his chair.

He wants to indulge in the happiness with his friend, but his pride demands protection. What if her visit goes badly? He doesn’t want McGee to see joy turn to hurt. So his response is subdued.

“So she says.” He pauses to type a few words of nonchalant nonsense. “Coming in for the trial.”

McGee’s smile doesn’t burst. Instead, it slowly ebbs away along with the light in his eyes to be replaced by that _damn look_ Tony’s borne the brunt of for three years. Concerned pity. “You’re not going to see her?”

Tony hits the return key hard enough to skip two lines. “Yeah, of course,” he says. “It’ll be good to catch up.”

McGee watches him. Tony wants to throw a stapler at his face. “Then we should catch up? All together?”

His snort is out before he can catch it. “The three of us? Sure. I don’t think you’ll get an advance on that, McGoo.”

He can feel McGee’s disappointment from across the room. “Gibbs’ll forgive her,” he says with false assurance. “Once he sees her.”

Tony doesn’t address that. It’s crap, and they both know it.

Gibbs doesn’t forgive. Not even when he isn’t owed an apology in the first place.

…

His phone rings for so long that she worries he has decided he should cut all ties with her. Bile rises in the back of her throat and burns her with shame, but he picks up in the second before she ends the call.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and secretive. She understands he is still at work. “You home safe, Miss American Pie?”

Her worry evaporates. They are on solid ground again. As much as ever. “Safe and sound,” she confirms. “Are you injured?”

He breathes a laugh into her ear, and tingles spread down the side of her neck as if he were there beside her. “Yeah. Only mild suffocation experienced as a result of the bubble wrap. People have been looking at me strangely all day, but I think I’m pulling the look off. It’s all about confidence, Ziva.”

Oh, God. She is still so deeply in love with him.

“You free tonight?” he asks.

He is making this too easy for her. “Yes. Would you like to have dinner?”

“Definitely. Where are you?”

She smiles before she answers, anticipating his response. “The Embasero.”

There is a pause, and then he groans with good nature. “Ziva,” he sighs. “You want me to bring pizza?" 

She smiles. He remembers. “No. We will find something better.”

…

He sees her from across the street. She’s standing beneath the hotel awning in the same spot they occupied the night they first met. Her dress is summery and white, her skin tanned and healthy and her hair curly and wild. It’s the closest thing to a religious experience he’s ever had. Every nerve ending in his body comes alive at the sight of her. He feels awake for the first time in three years.

Her head snaps around and she looks at him as if he called her name, and perhaps he did. He’s not even sure this moment is really happening. But their eyes meet and time slows down, and this is one of the moments in his life that he wants to pause and set up home in. He wonders if she’d like to join him there. 

He aches, but right now he’s happy to.

…

She sees him across the street, and although her nerves are eating through her stomach the sight makes her happier than she’s felt in…she can’t remember. He smirks at her, acknowledgement of where she’s standing, and she lets go of the smile bubbling up from within her. He looks so good she wants to cry. Tired, but still handsome. Age is settling well on him. 

Her heart stutters when his eyes make a pass over her. She wonders what he sees now. Wonders if he thinks her white shift is silly on her. She was feeling summery when she dressed. Hopeful. Perhaps it is too much…

He steps onto the sidewalk and she smiles with all the affection she feels. They meet in silence and stares. It’s where they’ve always been most comfortable. Their private place, even in a room full of people and activity. They’ve always had so much to say. Silently.

…

He reaches for her when he can’t stand the distance anymore. A light hand on her hip, testing the boundaries of this unfamiliar phase of their relationship. She smiles and leans into him, and his arms heed her signal. He wraps her up, tight and close as can be, and turns his face to her hair as she returns his lifesaving grip. She smells the same, and it almost brings him to tears.

She’s real.

…

She releases a breath she feels like she’s been holding since she watched him get on a plane three years ago. He shrouds her with his body as she nuzzles in as far as she can and sets up a home against his chest. His presence is so familiar—so _needed_ —that she aches to her bones. His acceptance of her reappearance is absolution she can almost taste on her lips. He smells the same, and it almost brings her to tears.

This is real.

…

He finally convinces himself that it’s okay to let her go—for now—and unwraps his arms from her. But he doesn’t step back, and they smile at each other from three inches apart. They’ve never been big on appropriate personal space.

“Hi,” he manages to whisper.

She smiles from her soul, and it makes his legs weak. “You look good,” she tells him.

He laughs. Isn’t that his line? He shakes his head, shrugging off the compliment and watches his hand appear on her cheek before pushing a few wind-whipped curls behind her ear. Her eyes flutter as she briefly leans into the touch. She’s more beautiful than he remembers. As if that’s possible.

…

His reaction relaxes her, and the thought returns that he is making this too easy on her. She was born to be suspicious—when will the other shoe drop?—but she reminds herself that she has left all that behind. Besides the fact, she should be ashamed of herself for being suspicious of him. Learn from history, she reminds herself. Whenever she has been suspicious of him, it has ended badly for her.

She forces herself to return to the moment. She owes him that. And herself.

“I haven’t made a reservation anywhere,” he’s saying to her.

She shrugs. A minor detail of no concern. “I am happy to just walk until we find somewhere.”

He seems pleased by this. She likes pleasing him. Even on minor details of no concern.

They start slowly, arms brushing together with every step.

Just like old times.

…

He hasn’t made a reservation, that much is true. But he has a place in mind. Two, actually. One for if the reunion seemed tense, and one for…well, _friendly_ feels like an inadequate description of how the reunion went. He’s buzzing from his brain to his toes.

She’s like a live wire.

So he steers them to a restaurant overlooking the river. One with outdoor tables from which they can enjoy the boats and twinkling lights and the romance of a dark sky. She smiles at him under lamplight and orders his drink without bothering to check that he’s in a whisky mood. She just knows.

He’s missed her so much.

He’s missed _them_ so much.

…

For once, he seems content to let someone else do the talking. She tells him about Schmiel, about her neighbor with the James Bond poster in her doorway, about the week Monique stayed with her and tried to get her involved in some operation involving Syrian rebels.

“I declined,” she assures him when the color drains from his face.

He watches her as she talks about the three-day trek she took on horseback, and how she slept under the stars, and she realizes that her cheeks are warming under his gaze. Has he always stared at her so intently? She remembers a time they were in the bullpen together. Alone. Late. He stared at her from just a breath away with the most blatant affection (or was it love?) she has ever seen. Then Ray called, and…

Missed chances.

But no one is in the way now, except themselves.

She finishes her story and stares back at him. After the longest time, he smiles.

Her heart can barely take it.

…

They barely touch their meals, as delicious as they are. He’s feeding instead on stories of how she has spent her time since he left her on the tarmac.

Since _she_ made him leave her.

There is a weight that she used to carry with her. The weight of other people’s expectations, and of her own. The weight of her guilt, however justified. The weight of her responsibilities.

The weight of denial over their feelings.

He used to feel that weight whenever she looked at him with tears in her eyes, or defiance on her lips. He used to feel it like a tangible presence sitting on his chest.

But not now.

When she talks to him about the work that has kept her busy over the last few months, there is no weight. Her eyes are bright as words spill out like he’s never heard from her before. He sees a new purpose there that helps soothe the sting of her absence from his life. He’s happy for her. Truly. He just wishes…

He takes a pained breath that she doesn’t notice. He would never want to take her away from what she loves doing. And it sounds like the thing she loves is still far across the seas.

He looks down and is mildly surprised to see that their fingers are touching across the table. Not entwined, but gently nudging. Keeping contact.

He just wishes that she and the thing she loves were always within arm’s reach.

…

There is a lull in conversation, and she follows his eyes to their hands. His hands. With the familiar scar on the pointer finger knuckle from a fight—when was it?—she thinks six years ago. He eventually got the upper hand. And a bad concussion.

Her stomach flips when she realizes how much she has missed his hands.

The hands that dragged her out of Somalia.

That soothed her nightmares in Paris.

That held her when she wanted to give up everything.

The hands that bunched and stroked when he begged her to understand that he was _fighting for her_.

Tears suddenly blur her vision. She has turned a blind eye so many times, and her regrets make her wonder where she would be if she hadn’t.

“Ziva?”

She raises her eyes to meet his and finds him worried. Hurting. Nervous.

“Are you all right?”

She breathes deeply and catches the familiar scent he carries at the end of the day. Fading cologne and his skin. Her stomach flips again, and she smiles. Because yes, she is all right.

“I was just thinking.”

“Yeah?”

She reaches the few extra inches needed to cover his hand with hers. “I am so very happy to see you.”

He smiles shyly. It is such a contrast to his usual, confident face. But this is the real him. The awkward guy at his core who can never quite believe such bare honesty when it is aimed at him. She hopes to change that one day.

Tony turns his hand, and they grip on to each other like they never would have dared before. “Me too.”

He sends her soaring, and she vows that if he lets her, she will kiss this man again tonight.

…

He doesn’t think he has ever walked more slowly than on their approach to The Embasero after dinner. This isn’t a date, but it’s the best one he’s ever had and he doesn’t want it to end. But eventually they return to the spot where he picked her up, and his heart squeezes as they turn to face each other to say goodnight.

He should know better than to try to predict Ziva’s moves.

She tilts her head up to him and his hands move millimeters towards her hips. He stops himself before he holds on to her.

Not yet.

“I know you have work tomorrow,” she says. She pauses and looks vaguely nervous, and his heart hammers. “But…do you want to come up for a while?”

He doesn’t know what the invitation is for, explicitly. But he’s up for whatever it is. He doesn’t want to say goodbye just yet.

He doesn’t want to say goodbye _ever_.

“Yeah.”

She smiles, looks away, takes his wrist as she turns towards the door. “You are not too tired?”

He was tired last night. And the day before. And the day before right back to three years ago. But now that she’s mentioned it, he realizes that he feels full of energy again.

She’s better than coffee.

“I don’t like what you’re implying, Ms David,” he sniffs, and holds the door open for her. The flirty look she shoots him over her shoulder as she passes stops his heart.

…

It feels so normal to be alone with him again. Of course she is also a bundle of excited nerves. But it feels normal. They’ve spent countless hours together, hidden away behind closed doors and as comfortable in silence as they are in conversation (and argument).

It’s so easy to feel at home with him.

Too easy.

Their roles have been reversed tonight, and she has given him an insight into what she has been doing with her life. Usually, it is difficult to prevent _him_ from over-sharing. She misses that. And she is keen to understand where life has taken him since…then.

She offers him overpriced, subpar wine from the minibar, and they sit together on the too-soft grey couch in her tastefully (but blandly) decorated room.

“We have not talked about you.”

He smiles at his wine before smiling at her. “I’m a Cancer,” he tells her. “I like piña coladas, and getting caught in the rain.”

She frowns. “Isn’t there coconut in piña coladas? You do not like coconut.”

He aims a look of fleeting adoration at her, and her breath catches. “No, not much. Nothing really to report back. Solving crimes, kicking ass, saving damsels. The usual.”

His smile isn’t reaching his eyes, and she almost addresses it. But he looks away and sips his wine, and she gets the message. _Not now._

“How is McGee?”

His smile is easier. “Getting serious with Delilah. It’s quite the sight. He was excited to hear you were going to be in town.”

She is excited to see him, too.

“How is Gibbs?”

The smile dies a bit. “He’s Gibbs.” One shoulder shrugs.

“Is he looking after himself?”

A chuckle. “He’s Gibbs,” he repeats.

She understands everything she needs to.

Except why the two men who were once devoted mentor and protégé seem divided now.

…

“May I be honest with you?”

“I expect nothing less from you, Ziva.” He’s not being flippant. It’s the truth. Out of everyone else in his life, he still expects honesty from her.

“I know I have not been around. And that removes my right to have any say on the matter.”

She is dancing around something. It puts him on edge. “What?”

“You seem…” She pauses, deflates. “Sad is not the word, but…”

_Hollow_ , he supplies in his head. But he can’t bring himself to say it aloud. He just nods. “Yeah, I know.” His voice is thick with the weight of it all. “I just…” How does he explain it?

“You are angry with me.”

He starts to shake his head, but what good is lying to her? “Yes.”

“But that is not all.”

He chuckles. “Not close.” He takes a second to breathe. Revaluate. “I’m not angry with you. I was. I’ve forgiven you, because I understand.” He pauses. In. Out. In. Out. “But I still miss you. Every day. Every time I look at your desk. Every awful stakeout. Every morning and every night. It tires me out, Ziva. That’s what you’re seeing.”

Her eyes shine with guilt and comprehension. “I am sorry, Tony,” she says, and he can see the weight she gives the apology in her eyes. “Hurting you was the last thing I wanted to do. I wish I did not feel that I had to go. And then I wish that I could have let you stay. I was so close. But I needed the time. I needed to work out who I am.” She pauses to roll her eyes at herself. “That sounds so stupid and indulgent.”

But it’s not. He understands.

He reaches to cover her knee with his hand. “I know, Ziva.”

She offers a watery smile and holds his hand. “I miss you, too.”

…

His hand stays on her knee as they talk. She thinks it is the longest deliberate (intimate) touch they’ve ever shared.

With explanations, apologies and declarations out of the way, she relaxes significantly. (Just one more thing to discuss.)

He makes it far too easy on her.

She feels better. Clearer. Braver.

Ready.

…

They talk about the trial that has brought her back home, and it takes him back to that time in their relationship. It was after her father died, after Berlin, after Bodnar. He knew she was cracking, and he was doing everything he could to keep her together. But the night before the arrest she’d been in a good mood—they both had—and they’d shared an intimate, weighted moment in the break room where he’d held her hand for a few precious seconds, and her eyes had caressed his lips.

Had they not been at work, he’s positive he would have kissed her.

He’s lost countless nights’ sleep to wondering what could have been if he’d just made a move on even one occasion he’d wanted to. Every time he passed up an opportunity, he told himself that it was okay. That they weren’t ready anyway. That it would happen when the time was right, or it just wouldn’t happen at all. And the reason he could tell himself that and not lose himself in despair was because back then she was still in his company, and it hadn’t occurred to him that she would leave.

And then she was gone.

The night he almost kissed her in the break room turned into a regret.

The night they’d gotten back from Berlin had turned into a regret.

The night he’d let Ray Cruz’s phone call interrupt them had turned into a regret.

And a hundred other moments.

He hadn’t cherished her enough when she was there. And then she was gone.

He wonders what he can do to stop that from happening again.

…

Hours pass, the air continues to clear, and they move to the bed as their eyes droop. She is as unwilling for him to leave as he seems to be, and so she smiles at him from two feet away as he gives her critiques of movies she hasn’t seen, or sometimes even heard of.

She loves seeing him so animated.

“We should go see the new Scorsese,” he says, and although she nods he seems to stop abruptly. He drops eye contact and pulls back ever so slightly, and the change squeezes her heart. “I’m making assumptions,” he says, and as animated as he was talking about film, he’s at least as dull now. “You never said how long you were staying." 

Nerves rise up from her stomach and crash through her chest like a wave. She has been awaiting this part of the night with trepidation. “No,” she says, and her hands bunch her pillow. “My flight leaves on Monday, but…”

Beloved eyes find hers again. She knows he heard all of what she said, but he seems fixated on the last word. “But?" 

She draws a careful breath and reveals the other reason for her visit. “But I have a meeting on Friday, after the trial. It is with an organization that lobbies for funds to help with medical care and education for refugees. Particularly women and girls.”

The pride in his smile makes her want to cry. “I think you’d be great at that.”

“It is an extension of what I have been doing recently.”

Long, gentle fingers reach out to stroke her hair for a few short seconds. “It makes you happy.”

“Yes.” His hand retreats once more, and her nerves crash into her again. They’ve walked the tightrope together for 11 years. It is time to throw herself off it and hope he comes with her. “The job is here in Washington.”

…

Time stops. _Washington?_ That means she’d be moving back here, unless she wants to continue punishing herself with the world’s worst commute. It begs the question, though, why she’s only mentioned it at bedtime.

“You weren’t going to tell me?” His voice is weaker than intended, but it conveys a message that she is quick to correct.

“Yes. But I did not want to start with it in case…I was not sure that you would want to know.”

Now he gets it. And it _hurts_. But it’s not her fault. “I’ll always want to know, Ziva." 

Wide brown eyes stare back at him, hopeful but still pessimistic. “It is not certain. I need to convince them that I could do it, but…”

“You’re ready to come home?” That’s the real question. That’s the one he needs answered.

She swallows, as if asking herself that once last time. Then she nods. “Yes. But it is not guaranteed,” she hastens to add.

“But you _want to_ come home,” he repeats. This is the part that interests him. This is the part he can work with. That hurdle is out of the way. If she doesn’t get the job, fine. They can sort something else out. But she _wants_ to be here. She’s ready.

“Yes, I do.” She smiles tentatively, awaiting his reaction. And he didn’t want to do this, but he can’t help it when tears fill his eyes.

“I’d really like that,” he tells her thickly. It’s an understatement. But when her eyes fill too, he’s pretty sure she knows.

She hesitates before reaching for him, and he eagerly meets her halfway. Her lips are as soft and hot as he remembers, seemingly made just for him. It’s a selfish thought, but he’ll deal with his ego later. Right now, all his brain can process is happiness.

He still loves her more than anything.

… 

Her dreams are devoid of the anxiety she’s been carrying for so many years. When she wakes at dawn, wrapped in his heavy arms and his smell, she feels refreshed in a way she is unaccustomed to. It is hard for her to remember how nervous she felt even last night as she waited on the street. Hard to remember why she thought Tony might refuse to see her. Even with all his valid reasons, he is not the man who turns his back. He’s the man who offers his heart and loyalty, even when it is not fully deserved. He is the man who forgives because he cannot live peacefully with the alternative.

He is the man she will not leave again, for better or worse. 

She knows this truth for sure, because she has lived it.

There is no better without him.

**Author's Note:**

> Goddamn it, I just want to see one scene with them together and happy. Just one!


End file.
